


Everyone is killing me and everything conspires

by pingou



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bran Stark Has Emotions, F/M, House Stark Family Feels (ASoIaF), Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte, POV Bran Stark, Physical Disability, Slight Catelyn bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pingou/pseuds/pingou
Summary: Nobody notices Bran Stark very long, but he notices things, despite what his family thinks.He notices Rickon noticing the librarian, for instance.But nobody believes him (Rickon's too young, Shireen too serious) and time flies, life happens.Until a pandemic appears and Bran gets a surprising visitor.For theme Quarantine in the Rickeen Shipweek 2020 and for the delightful person who encouraged me, merci!
Relationships: Bran Stark & Rickon Stark, Shireen Baratheon/Rickon Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Everyone is killing me and everything conspires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrozenSnares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/gifts).



Nobody ever notices a cripple very long. The wheelchair stands out, sure, but people quickly avert their eyes, or just go on with their day as if he doesn’t exist. Bran Stark likes it just fine, really. 

He’s a quiet guy most of the time anyway, more an observer than a doer, since at seven he had fallen from a three-story window. His spine smashed through the glass garden where blue winter roses are to this day religiously grown by his family in memory of Aunt Lyanna, and that was that.

He can’t sneak around as silently as his sister Arya does. Again, wheelchairs aren’t made for furtiveness, but he still can reach invisibility if he chooses, a kind that with all her martial arts training and resourcefulness, Arya Underfoot would never achieve. And a good thing too, for high school libraries are not a typical hunting ground for Starks, much less the hyperactive She-Wolf.

Speaking of wolfish sibling, Bran is suddenly very glad that he’s partly hidden by the bookshelf dedicated to sciences and technologies. Rickon, his not so little brother, has an uncanny ability to spot people, almost like Shaggydog had taught his master how to track a potential prey.

However, his sole attention is focused on the counter where the part-time librarian is covering brand new books with swift movements. Swift movements that Rickon drinks in greedily, unmoving and rosy cheeked under his freckles.

Wait, what?

Gendry “don’t ask anything ever I’m dense” Waters could have been right? Does unmanageable Rickon Stark have a crush on his cousin Shireen? The brainy quiet daughter of Stannis Baratheon? Half-burnt post-grad Shireen who hides a side of her face and body under black long hair and turtlenecks all school year?

Bran is definitely not freaking out, nope, if his hands are getting sweaty on the armrests it’s only because it’s hot in this library. How can she bear to wear a turtleneck? Okay it’s some kind of light fabric, and sleeveless but —

Is he getting creepy? Yeah, yeah, better leave that to the side.

But why Rickon hasn’t done anything yet? Hasn’t moved, nor talked, anything. Correcting the earlier assessment, Bran isn’t the creepy one, baby Rick is.

“May I help you, Mr. Stark,” Shireen finally asks, professional demeanor full in place.

“No,” the youngest Stark answers curtly, straightening his back like Robb does when he feels threatened, “no, thank you Ma’am,” he adds softer.

Bran has to bite his cheek not to let out a yelp of surprise at the politeness, for no relative — as far as Rickon knows — is present to force his brother to abide to elementary social customs, yet he did it of his own volition. All for the sake of a mere librarian assistant, when he won’t muster common decency for distant relatives like Aunt Lysa or a bloody minister such as Robert “freaking powerhouse” Baratheon…

Nope, he’s overreacting, that’s all, yeah, he shouldn’t have drunk that much coffee, the third cup was definitely an overkill.

But _Ma’am_? What in the world? Is it his way of trying to be smooth? Bran stifles a snort, all thoughts of philosophy essays and deadlines forgotten despite the material in front of him. So their mother has watched some old fashioned movie last Sunday with Sansa but he’d not expected Rickon using it as a potential pickup line reference. Just the thought is Preposterous (Capital P) and all the more when the intended is Shireen Baratheon! Forgetting the face thing, she’s like, ancient, more than twenty if not quite twenty-five like Gendry.

Is he being a judgmental prick? Yeah, yeah, but the point still stands though.

“If you’d like to sit,” she invites, gesturing vaguely towards the study area, “but I believe your brother is here somewhere, he might need your assistance.”

Oh boy, if the wording and tone are ambiguous, her stare is not, she’s looking straight at him. She has piercing blue eyes, Bran never noticed, and was that a smirk? Now he’s a laid-back guy, he swears, he’s pretty calm most of the time, except when exam time is coming — which it is — and he has too much caffeine in his bloodstream… it is the only reason why he bodily shudders when Rickon does a complete turnaround, narrows his light green eyes and gives him a feral smile in return.

“ _Brandon_ , just the bro I needed to fetch.”

Said Brandon rises an eyebrow bravely to keep countenance, and if he tenses his shoulders, it’s only because it’s getting cold in this library. He doesn’t even protest about rolling himself out when the teen grips firmly the handles of the chair, maneuvering it swiftly out of the corner. Then he half-heartedly lets him gather his things back in the bag on his knees, and tries not to frown: the less Bran says, the better he’ll end up, even if he does feel pampered by the baby of the family.

“We gotta go, Bran has an appointment.”

He does? Shoot, he does, he’d forgotten! Rickon tilts his head and leans forward lightly, catching his eyes briefly, the warning in his eyes unmistakable. Both guys nod respectfully at the librarian assistant when they’re about to exit and she bids them a good afternoon. All would have been normal if not for his big mouth asking:

“What’s up with you and Miss Baratheon?”

No self-preservation whatsoever, when he’d had just sworn to himself that he would keep his mouth shut as much as possible… the only reason why he’s not face palming right now is because he has to clutch the armpads. Rickon has suddenly decided that he should incline him with his foot and make him roll on the big wheels. Why couldn’t Bran use peacefully the handrims himself, with his brother walking next to him instead huh? Jon always does unless Bran asks specifically for help. Bran likes Jon, he’s much nicer, and considerate, contrary to what mother says about him.

“Hey, Rickon, there’s stairs ahead, just saying. The elevator’s further left.”

“There’s nothing going on between me and her,” he snarls, though despite the intimidation tactic, he knows he won’t drop or push him ever, he’s not THAT much of an arse, “I don’t even like to read. I just picked you up because I’ve been asked to. Got it?”

“Crystal clear, dear bro, now get me back straight please.”

He complies rudely and Bran is pretty glad that he can’t feel anything from his lower back down to his toes on the footrests because the abruptness made his teeth clench together. Wheelchair bound and unnoticeable he may be, but for his own safety, he’d rather have been mute. Which is why, when his little brother loads him into the back of the family car like cattle and drives him to the rehabilitation center without saying anything, Bran doesn't mind. He practices his newfound muteness steadily, yet gives a friendly wave to Rickon, who, although petulant, still waits until his elder brother enters the building before starting the car again. 

He hates rehab, it must be said. It’s useful but aggravating. Thoughts consuming. Body taxing. For an hour he does nothing but exert himself and what he has witnessed earlier flees from his mind.

It’s only when he’s safely back home — Arya was the driver this time — that what transpired in the library comes back. Of course, seeing Gendry with his glaring Baratheon features playing video games against Theon of all people would refresh his memory. After making sure that nobody else was in the house, he broaches the subject. It could be a potential disaster here! Better dealing that within the pack. Gendry's a Baratheon in all but name and while not exactly pack, Greyjoy has been Robb’s best friend since like, kindergarten and has been a fixture in all the Starks’ dramas since. Only their reactions were not what he expected:

“Your meds are too strong I swear, it’s messing up your brain,” his sister declares unconcerned. “Rickon is barely a sophomore and Shireen is a college student! And not the cool kinky type, either, she chose a boring library science major, just like daddy dearest.”

“Hey,” Theon intervenes with a lecherous smile, “uptight librarians can get naughty you know? I can show you proof if you —”

“Shut up Greyjoy!” Arya barks, while Bran rolls his eyes because of course Theon would go there, he wouldn’t miss a golden opportunity for innuendo ever.

The fact that it would involve a barely legal boy and woman in her twenties holding a position of authority doesn’t bother anyone else apparently.

“I… am not sure if you should be concerned,” mumbles Gendry awkwardly, “I’m definitely not, because I’m nobody and I’ve got nothing to gain with meddling either way. But… I already told you that he might have a crush on Shireen.”

“You’re stupid, how would you know?”

Waters doesn’t even blink at the familiar and careless way Arya insulted him, but refuses to elaborate beyond that. He doesn’t need to. Even their mother, Catelyn, overrides her disdain of illegitimate spawns to accommodate Robert’s unacknowledged son, so persuaded is she that nobody else — male or female — could handle her youngest daughter. The only one that is not aware of the way the guy’s feelings goes beyond friendship is Arya herself.

And will that be a cataclysm when she realizes, Bran can already picture it and every sibling plus Theon have Jon Snow on speed dial at ready, as he’s the only one able to talk her down. He shivers and tries to cover it by fidgeting on the blanket covering his cold legs.

Better stay focused on the present, Rickon, namely. One thing at a time, as he’s usually told in rehab.

“Crush or not, I tell you there’s something funny going on.”

“He’s sixteen,” Theon shrugs, “do you have any idea of how many crushes Robb had weekly until he got married to Jeyne?”

“But that’s just it, Robb is dutiful to the fault, while Rickon, well you know he’s not the most responsible.”

“Shireen is responsible for the two of them,” Gendry reasons in a voice that suffers no argument.

“Still, my instincts are seldom wrong, when I say we should pay attention, you’d do well to heed me!”

“Why? Are you a seer all of sudden?”

He scoffs moodily at his sister’s jape and rolls out of the living room in long pushes. Everyone is conspiring against him and his good sense today. 

**~*~*~*~*~Time~*~*~*~*~Skip~*~*~*~*~**

When the dreaded finals came and went, Bran graduated with honors. His whole family cheered the loudest — even solemn Jon whooped! — but most of all he was glad to leave high-school behind. University would be harder to attend, further from home, but it would be an adventure and likely rewarding if he manages long enough to get his degree.

He’d decided to major in Psychology and chose Theology courses on the side because it seemed interesting. Of course, as he always expected, he could not live entirely on campus and must spend most of his weekends at home — with a few random days here and there, for check-ups, physical therapy and the like — but he lived mostly like any other student and he loved it. Plus, he was housed with his best friends, the Reeds siblings, life was good!

He should have known the malediction that befell the Starks of early generations — and himself, if he’s feeling particularly superstitious — would strike again. No death or severe injury thankfully, but barely a few months in, Bran receives an emergency text:

 _Rickon dropped out and refuses to complete his formal education._ At seventeen and half. No blackmail or plea could make him yield. Not their parents’ and not Robb’s. So, as Bran knocks on his little brother’s room, he doesn’t waste his saliva.

The room itself — pretty bare as Rickon blessedly was not materialistic in the first place — looks wrecked already. Still, the teen clears the way so he can roll inside, a victory in itself. But well, as the youngsters, they do see each other more than the rest of the pack, and quietness indeed was the best policy when dealing with him. Everyone has already said everything that could be anyway. He looks silently at Rickon, and waits for an opening that isn’t too long to come:

“You’re not gonna say that I’m throwing my life away? You that are so brilliant in your studies, you’d be the perfect candidate.”

“No, it’s not our way, you never brag on your hiking or trekking, while I can’t stand without a bloody harness and a metal plank. Everyone has their strength; school was never yours. I just wonder why you would drop now, and like this, is it to draw attention?”

Rickon grimaces, he hates any reminder of his disability, he was four to Bran’s seven when the accident happened. He doesn’t remember when they both used to clutch Robb’s legs to slow him down when he decided to race Sansa. But at least the question doesn’t anger him too much, Bran really would like to get a reason why, instead of just suffering through the aftermath.

“I want no attention at all, I never had it so I don’t miss it. And before you ask, this is not ‘a phase I’ll grow out of'" Rickon sneers, his impersonation of Robb spot on. “You call me the baby of the family yet you’re Mother’s favorite, just as Arya’s Father’s, Robb is the golden eldest, Sansa’s almost a Disney princess in the flesh… but me?”

“Look —”

“No! No, you listen Brandon, I’m just… I love Shaggy and I admire Osha, they get me. The rest of you try, when you spare the time, but you just see me as a second Arry with a cock and mom’s coloring. I’m not.”

“Actually, it might be uncle Edmure you take more after in looks, but don’t worry the rest of you is all Stark.”

“Praise the Gods for that,” he mutters, a tad calmer.

“And I do try to get you, harder than anyone. Well, except Jon, because Jon gets each of us, even Sansa who would never admit it, he’s great like that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he concedes dubiously, “Jon’s cool. Your point?”

“My point is you could take a page out of his book and —”

“Go away and join the army to flee mom? I’m not made for authority; I think that’s clear.”

“Stop interrupting me, that’s rude bro, not that you’re wrong mind you, but I meant to say… forge your own path like he did.”

“Platitudes. Your Psychology studies make you sound like a cheap Chinese cookie.”

Well, at least he tried.

**~*~*~*~*~Time~*~*~*~*~Skip~*~*~*~*~**

Bran isn’t yet so conceited to believe that his input has been decisive when six weeks later he comes home to Rickon’s new life plans:  
Baby Rick, suitcase and Shaggydog’s leash in hand, has actually been registered to The American Society of Botanical Artists for several months? Now, he’d always fared better outdoors and loves nature, but nobody actually knew he drew, and professionally too? 

To be sure their parents would let him leave home without much fuss or dreading legal emancipation, he reluctantly agrees on getting his GED separately. Apparently, he landed an apprenticeship at Highgarden Academy of all places. Mother cries rivers but Father is left quite happy at this new development. He’d feared that Rickon would pull a Lyanna and run away, period. At least, even far away from them in the south, he had an objective, perhaps he had even found his calling…

Didn’t Bran say he could forge is own path? He might sound like “a cheap Chinese Cookie” but the feeling of being right is glorious, so sue him. 

To be honest, he hasn’t even seen a hint of the amazing plants schematics that constitute Rickon’s portfolio before — quite vexing to have entirely missed such a talent — but there’s more important than failing at omniscience, right? So yeah, he might have danced and rolled around in his room with only his dog Summer as a witness. 

Afterwards, he hugs his brother really hard and swears that they would all see each other during vacations at the very least, and that, in return, he shouldn’t be a stranger in between. Rickon promises, does to keep in touch somewhat — even sends him a few postcards whenever he gets to travels — and life goes on.

**~*~*~*~*~Time~*~*~*~*~Skip~*~*~*~*~**

Until a pandemic appears, a global one, with deaths, lockdown, curfew and quarantine all over the world… and nobody could have foreseen it, not even Brandon Stark.

Of course, Greywatch university has closed for the time being and he had to come home, he did have some rehab equipment at his disposal here. Sansa chose to spend time home too, for some reason she refused to disclose, and that was fine with him, he didn’t see her a lot these days.

The problem was that their parents have also insisted on Rickon coming home for the duration of the quarantine, and the youngest Stark son was NOT happy at all. He didn’t like being indoors to begin with, so the rules of lockdown were downright unbearable to him and Shaggydog.   
Bran is sympathetic to his plight, but can’t quite relate; living in a wheelchair is constricting enough and imposes rules that take the edge of the lockdown by comparison. Technology helps a good deal — though he misses Jojen and Meera dearly — which is why Bran found rather counter-productive of Rickon to have let his phone get crushed in a fit of rage earlier today. At least, he surmised it was a fit, but he held his tongue.

See? He learned to be mute while he was away, this is growth people.

He jolts awake that night, realizing he has fallen asleep on his textbook again, because of hard knocks on the front door — not far from his personal den. After several seconds of tense waiting, Summer gets agitated and the knocking resumes. He transfers into his light manual wheelchair with a bit of difficulty but he manages, all the while someone keeps at it frantically. 

“Hello? Let me in. Please let me in!”

Now, he won’t ever think Wuthering Heights melodramatic again, and Jojen might like oldies music, he won’t ever bear to listen to the Kate Bush song from now on. He knew watching the BBC or ITV (well, something British) adaptation with Meera was a mistake… Summer sniffs intensively underneath the door but doesn’t act frightened. Good for him. This shouldn’t be the ghost of Cathy Earnshaw then.

“Please, someone open the door,” the sobbing female voice adds.

And while Bran is definitely spooked, he’s the closest to the front door, and nobody else has come down yet. He sees his hand trembling a bit but he undoes the latch and lock anyway. He’s a Stark, cripple or not he’s not a coward, plus he has Summer as back-up.

A human figure, quivering and staggering takes a few hurried steps in and before he can register more, falls rather gracefully. There on her hands and knees in front of the wheelchair, is a woman Bran hasn’t seen for a couple of years, since he’d finished high school, in fact.

“Miss Baratheon?! Shireen?”

He might have been the ghost, instead of her, for she stays right on the entrance rug, and she doesn’t seem to register his presence nor his astonishment. She’s wearing sneakers without socks, but kept Bambi pajamas on and it adds to his overall unease. He has felt dread pooling down his stomach like that before: the day he fell and never walked again.

“Rickon... Need Rickon…” she breathes out, barely audible and he feels struck by lightning, really, he stiffens so harshly he feels some of his joints and his spine strain painfully.

She… is looking for Rickon?! Right now, in the middle of a rainy night? Oh, he hopes his little brother hasn’t sneaked out and was indeed in his room upstairs… that something dreadful hasn’t actually happened to him anyhow. They are in quarantine even, there was a curfew… Gods, is the police coming, she did not risk arrest, did she?!

Is he freaking out? Yeah, yeah he is, but he cuts himself some slack for once, considering that this random apparition of a figure from his past is actually having a panic attack of some kind, now. 

He needs to move, do something, find Rickon, why is nobody except him awake yet?! There could have been intruders and his entire family stays sound asleep above, unbothered. They have three dogs in residence and except for Summer, even they didn’t react, not even a bark or a whine?

No, not the time. Focus, focus. Wake Rickon up, yeah, it’s the best thing to do.

He rolls down the corridor and rings his emergency bell at the bottom of the stairs: THIS ruckus should be able to wake everyone. Shireen almost convulses at the sound though, Bran cringes to see it, berating himself, because he could have gone modern and less dramatic and simply call for Rickon, instead... Finally, there’s agitation upstairs, grumbling and dogs making themselves known. People that will handle the crisis better than him. 

He takes back his original place anyway, holding his hand up so that she can stand back up if she wants it, or to offer some comfort… he doesn’t quite understand what he offers himself, but her ice-cold fingers grip on and she looks at him for the first time, craning her long neck a little. She looks frightened somehow — she’s trembling too, perhaps she’s in shock? — but he feels more useful all of sudden and tries to send her a reassuring smile for good measure.

As expected, Mother and Father are the first to exit their bedroom and look at him over the guardrail, frowning when they find him well enough. Sansa follows her dog Lady drowsily, barely missing Shaggy who runs downstairs straight to Shireen, figures.

Half-nude in a pair of paw prints covered underwear, bed hair wilder than ever before, his brother appears at last. Starts to scowl at him but then, he must catch a glimpse of Shireen behind the wheelchair, because all colors drain from his face and blind fear takes their place. Then, he literally flies to her as well, pushing mom and Father out of his way, feet barely touching the wooden creaking stairs and suddenly he too is on his knees right in front of them.

Shireen moves her arms immediately to link around his neck, interlacing her fingers at the nape of it, and Rickon visibly relaxes at the touch. He exhales deeply in return, crouching down, freeing her scarred temple from her wet hair as the odd tear streams down her face still. And Bran, feeling like an intruder, cheeks burning, looks purposefully elsewhere, towards his relatives that seem gobsmacked, mom especially.

“Shir? Shireen? What’s wrong love? I’m here, you’re safe.”

Both Sansa and Mother gasp loudly at the endearment, and a tiny part of the once eighteen-year-old Bran wants to roll around and gloat — if only Arya and Gendry, heck, even Theon were here — because he knew it! He’d seen it years ago when everyone had scorned him. He has never seen Father so bewildered before though, but of course he’s the one who breaks the ice:

“Shireen, are you okay? Should I call Stannis?"

She physically recoils at the suggestion, while Rickon's eyes turn almost a steely grey in his furor, baring his teeth like Shaggydog:

“No, she’s staying here. She came to me and I’ll protect her. She’s a grown woman, her father has no business knowing where she is.”

“Rickon!” Mom admonishes, to no avail as always.

But Father, as always also, takes the wildness and anger in stride — “it’s the wolf blood, Arya and Rickon have it, just like my brother Brandon and sister Lyanna did before them, let me handle it,” he’d just say. He takes in the situation: his son, crouched protectively around an unresponsive Shireen, her face completely hidden in the crook of his shoulder now.

“What makes you think you have the right to make this decision?” Father asks, placid.

“I do have the right, she’s mine.”

“Rickon!” Mom interjects again, horrified, only this time, Shireen’s voice had joined hers.

He only raises a cocky eyebrow, eyes on Shireen as if daring her to deny it, and her clenched jaw indeed brings Stannis to mind — and Gendry too, the seldom times Bran has ever seen the guy aggravated. A Baratheon through and through, bearing at odds with her earlier behavior, which, he suspects, has been his brother’s goal, if the grin adorning his face is any indication.

“I… apologize for my intrusion in your home, Mr. and Mrs. Stark,” she declares in a gravelly voice, eyes still shiny with unshed tears and up close the burnt side of her face is even more intimidating, scars intricately marring her pale skin in a pattern akin to scales, somehow. “I didn’t know anywhere else to go and Rickon wasn’t answering his phone…”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I lost my temper earlier,” he grumbles, truly apologetic, “the phone ended up a casualty.”

“And you did not think that I might want to call you?!”

Yep, the intensity of her glare is definitely a Baratheon trademark, and while the rest of his family are petrified and gawking at the couple — rather useless if you ask him — Bran has difficulty stifling a chuckle. Gods… what an explosive combination of personality they have, and he thought Jon and Ygritte were bad. Unfortunately, he’s the only one with enough perspective to grasp that, because mom has had quite enough to be on the sidelines it seems:

  
“ENOUGH! I want an explanation and I want it now! Everyone goes to the living room.”

Sansa tries to argue, she may have been surprised and a tad curious but she doesn’t like to snoop into other people’s lives. Well, not anymore, her time in King’s Landing university is maturing her. But mom’s orders are law and sighing, she complies, going down the stairs in her silk negligee with more grace than the situation warrants. A Disney princess in the flesh, her siblings called her and it’s certainly an apt moniker.

She grabs his chair handles, intending to push him and her hair is cascading so low that Bran catches the fragrance of her flowery shampoo. Not a chemical thing, an old-fashioned organic hair product, that smells like roses or violets or something delicate like that. He doesn’t quite remember the comments she made last Christmas when she’d got it from her friend Margaery, but whatever this was, it calms his frayed nerves. He likes it, so he reaches behind his shoulder to tap her fingers in thanks.

The parents get situated on the couch, but Sansa elects an armchair, on which she sits like one might on a throne. He rolls down next to her, sets the manual brakes and refrains from clasping her hand in support. He’s tempted though, she’s his big sister and he’s still shaken by the nightly encounter. That, and he is very receptive to the ambient emotions around… Shireen — wearing the old tracksuit jacket hanging in the hall, why didn’t he think of covering her, shoot! — tries to disappear into Rickon’s side, both of them remaining standing. Father takes pity on everyone and gestures for two more chairs with a polite smile:

“Please, sit, there’s a difference between an explanation and an interrogation. We just have a few questions. You’ll admit, Shireen, that you’re the last person we might expect to barge in at night.”

“I know Mr. Stark and I apologize for that, I just… panicked I suppose.” 

She lowers her head, but Bran catches her unmarred cheek turning crimson. The other side doesn’t color as much though, does she have any feeling to it? She must, Rickon has touched it earlier. Wait, not the point here, plus, there’s a thin line to cross between curiosity and creepiness… he gets stared at often enough to know that firsthand. 

“Call me Ned, you’re Robert’s niece, after all.”

“As well as Rickon’s girlfriend, surprisingly,” mom snaps, frowning at the pair.

“Well… yes, and I did not pause to think about whether or not you knew about me. I am sorry, I should have, I realize now it might create a problem…”

“Well, you’ll never be a problem to me, Shir,” Rickon says resolutely, grasping her fingers, “but I wanna know what scared you so much you ran straight into my arms.”

“Melisandre,” Shireen whispers with a shudder, and Father is suddenly on alert.

“Your father’s companion?”

“Yes, I love my father but I… don’t like her very much. First, she got into my mother’s head, leading to… well to my parents’ divorce, for one, but it is not the point here… you know that she is a bit… peculiar?”

“It’s certainly one word for it, I’ll add mystical and borderline pyromaniac, according to Robert.”

“He is right, I was just visiting my father, we went to see mom at the hospital together, we felt we had to, we’re her only family. Of course, night came pretty quickly and then rain kept pouring so… so my father insisted that I stay the night,” Shireen explains, getting increasingly more erratic, despite Rickon’s presence. “Only Melisandre, she… was literally playing with fire somehow, I… smelt smoke, that woke me up and saw her standing in my room, she was fixing me, then she started intoning some chant, holding a big… I don’t know what exactly, but something was burning in a tin in front of her and I… fire, it… well I got my scars from a fire as a toddler so…”

“Say no more,” Ned interrupts gently, “we can deduce the rest.”

"We have to report her, that’s ominous,” Sansa shudders, while Bran can only nod vehemently in agreement, “I’d flee too, if it were me.”

Rickon jumps on his feet and lets the chair topple behind him without a care, fits taunt already. Before anyone can stop him, Shireen snatches his wrist and sends him a pleading look:

“Come on, stay calm,” she soothes, “I’m safe now, I’m fine, you know how she is, right? I shouldn’t have accepted to stay there with her. I won’t do it again. If you go to my father’s now, you’ll do something stupid like get arrested. You said you would protect me, so you have to keep your word and stay here.”

“She’s the one that must be arrested,” he all but growls in return, “she’s a toxic witch.”

“I know, I am sorry, I put myself in this situation and it’s not fair of me to cry home to you.”

He blinks slowly but his eyes go back to their normal light green and the catastrophe appears to be averted for now. Bran can’t help but to admire her efficiency at managing his brother’s mood swings, it must be what some call the power of love. Then he groans internally at the corniness, thank the Gods for the fact that his family can’t hear his thoughts!

“Fair or no I’m glad you came home to me, Shir, always,” he replies, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Then in the same breath, turning towards his parents, he states casually, “Look, I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind. We’ll spend our quarantine elsewhere, together, with Shaggydog.”

The silence that meets this declaration is almost menacing. It’s Bran’s turn to be agape this time, because, not even focusing on the abrupt change of topics, his audacity is astounding. Father too is left speechless, while Mother on the other hand, explodes:

“She’s at least thirty Rickon, come to your senses! You are not suited at all, I shudder to think of the implications of you being together, how long has this been going on? No wonder you dropped out, young as you were!”

Her face has taken on a near apoplectic look, like the time Robb announced that Jeyne was pregnant already, barely out of high-school. Whereas Rickon holds his ground, utterly calm in comparison, and suddenly Bran realizes how much, while they’ve all enjoyed university separately, the youngest became an adult in his own right.

“I have a steady job right now, I’m almost twenty-one, and you can’t parent me all of sudden just because you realized you have no grip on me anymore, if you ever did.”

“If I may interrupt, I may be twenty-six soon — not quite thirty yet, do get your facts straight, Mrs. Stark — but I certainly didn’t defile Rickon, and even less during the little time he attended his former high-school, it goes against basic deontology.”

Shireen remained icy yet polite, her face suddenly unreadable and Bran is not sure whether her last remark on work ethic is a jibe or not. Rickon does snort however, and his confident smirk clearly tells his siblings that if principles or defilement were involved, they were not his. Sansa blushes, likely coming to the same conclusion, and once again Bran wishes Theon was here, he’d have a blast and probably ease the tension.

“A five years gap is light-years away at your age,” Mother persists, sternly, “you’re an intelligent woman, surely you understand that.”

“What I understand is that you seem convinced that there’s a discrepancy in our relationship, I can assure you there isn’t.”

“Listen, it took years for her to notice me! She’s lovely and kind, and okay she talks like she has swallowed a dictionary, but she’s a librarian! I know she’s out of my league alright? Stop acting like she’s the one at fault!”

“I’m not,” she interjects immediately.

“My point.”

“No, I mean, I am not out of your league Rickon,” Shireen states firmly, “you are a wonderful gardener, an aspiring botanist and an artist to boot, I will not have you demeaning yourself like this.”

They are all stunned into silence again and Sansa sends Shireen a delighted smile, clearly won over. But more than the support she offered their brother, Bran recalls the many times when Rickon screeched that nobody knew him, that no one even cared to, in the past. There was more truth to it than he feels comfortable with. But this feisty slip of a woman keeps his wild brother on his toes, and he’s glad for it. Age is just a number after all, they do seem in love and supportive of one another so, Bran decides to champion them, even if it means going against Parental Authority. 

Better die young for a good cause, if at the hand of one own mother, he reflects, only half-joking. Everything has been slowly killing him since the day he was born anyway.

He signs discreetly to Rickon that he should leave the room — Robb and Jon came up with a code as children, and the pack keeps using it in dire situations — Father pretends he doesn’t understand and Mother is still lost in her own thoughts, eyes unfocused. It’s too much to ask for Rick to retreat quietly though:

“I said everything I wanted to say, it’s close to 3 AM and Shireen should have dry clothes.”

“Oh no, I feel warm enough!” she’s quick to protest, even if her square jaw (she is lovely, but not pretty in the strictest sense) shakes as she refrains a yawn.

After the adrenaline rush it must have taken Shireen to get to them, her nerves are slacking off. No one can blame her for this, if it were him, Bran wouldn't even have the will to explain anything to anyone, to begin with. That's probably why when Rickon drags her into the hallway, no one insists that the couple stay.

On the contrary, their absence should make it easier for him and Sansa to interfere. Or at least, he hopes so as he looks at their mother's painfully impassive face. He needs to feel like he managed some damage control before going back to bed. 

“Cat,” Father sighs, after a few seconds where they could hear Shaggydog climbing the stairs excitedly after his master, “don’t take it so much at heart, Rickon has been his own man for a while now. And while I have but a few acquaintances with Stannis in the span of forty years, his character reflects well on his daughter.”

“Are you kidding Eddard? He may be serious and dutiful but his… choice of a new woman had his child crawling toward us in the middle of the night! Well, to Rickon. I suppose I should be grateful for that, or else we’d never have known they’re together!”

“I grant you that Melisandre is very odd, and that her behavior is concerning, but it’s not Shireen’s fault, nor is she to blame if Rickon has little desire to involve us in his life,” Father insists, visibly saddened.

Mother purses her lips but her blue eyes — that Sansa and Bran himself inherited — are brimming with tears. She’s likely blaming herself for whatever mothering standard she failed at meeting.

“He always was a bit much to handle, we know. That doesn’t mean he’s not right,” Sansa says, gently. “You can’t keep him here if he doesn’t wish it. As for Shireen, she loves him very much, it’s plain to see. I look forward getting to know her.”

Father nods but Mother’s not receptive to the argument so Sansa looks at him, silently willing him to give it a shot. He hopes his reputation of favorite of hers is not usurped, because he’s too tired not to be curt, or at the very least, brutally honest. Their surprise guest is not the only one desperately needing sleep and he tries to cover up his growing crankiness under an even tone:

“Doesn't it occur to you both how he might resent you? He sees our current situation as a way to stifle him. The fact is, while I need your care to some extent, he doesn’t. We’re all adults, I know you mean well Mother, but you’ll lose him if you don’t relent.”

“Quarantine and other measures are hardly our fault, Bran.”

“But you asked of him to leave his normal surroundings to come back here, assuming that he would prefer that, didn’t you? Even without the drama of earlier, Rickon won’t stay long. He’s not dealing well here.”

“It’s not a crime to want our family members reunited in these difficult times.”

“No, of course not,” Sansa soothes, “but it shouldn’t happen under duress, either.”

“He made his intentions clear Cat, you know he will not back down, whether or not we accept it. Now I propose that we all go back to sleep, maybe we’ll all feel better in the morning.”

Both children nod at their father, Sansa already standing up. Mother doesn’t say anything else but once they get in front of the stairs, she declares:

“I won’t have them sleeping together under my roof. Rickon will bunk with Bran.”

“Won’t Arya’s room suffice? It’s empty,” Rickon’s voice points out sullenly, scowling from the rail above.

His hearing is frighteningly keen, that or he’d expected to be called back at some point. Bran doesn’t know and is too tired to be surprised of anything anymore.

“I don’t trust you to behave, so I’m putting space between you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m sure Shireen wouldn’t dispute me this, when I’ll tell her my reasons.”

“Don’t disturb her, she’s half-asleep already,” his brother says and it sounds like a surrender.

Father and Sansa — after a little wave in his direction — both climb the stairs slowly. What Mother doesn’t understand is that she may be winning this petty battle, but she already lost the war. Still, after sending him a kiss, she goes to bed looking satisfied. A few seconds pass, and Bran almost hails his brother, when Shireen, dead on her feet, comes out of the bathroom.

He should go, but curiosity keeps him captivated, eyes and ears wild open:

“I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of sunsets,” she says sadly, standing beside his brother (she’s actually quite tall).

While the sentence seems rather enigmatic to Bran, he still feels for her. They’re all tired of metaphorical sunsets nowadays… People feel trapped in fog at the very least, if not obscurity. Yet Rickon kisses her forehead with the utmost tenderness and only replies:

“I’ll give you one, we’ll even wake up at an ungodly hour so we can watch real ones, if you’d like Shireen. We’ll start over, me and you.”

“You and I, Rickon,” she corrects sternly, though her eyes droop and she sways on her feet due to sleepiness.

“You and I — and Shaggy too, Miss Grammar,” he chuckles good-naturedly, “Rest easy and go to sleep in my room, I’ve left my door open. I’ll leave him with you tonight.”

“Where will you be?”

“Downstairs, crashing with Bran. We have to be responsible, and we wouldn’t both fit in my childhood bed anyway”.  
If the conversation went for longer, Bran doesn’t know and doesn’t care, Sansa is not the only Stark child to value privacy. When Rickon comes in the den, settling on the spare mattress on the floor, he feigns sleep. 

Not successfully, alas, because his brother speaks to him at a normal volume:

“Hey Bran, thanks for earlier, you’re a good bro, I appreciate it. Don’t worry, wherever I end up living with Shireen, it’ll be accessible. Out of all the pack, you’re the one I’d want the most of visits from.”

“Love you too, baby Rick.”

His little brother throws a pillow in retaliation that of course, in his exhaustion he has no time to dodge, but doesn’t mind so much. He feels drowsy but glad to be one of the few people Rickon felt considerate with. A smile tugging at his lips, he refuses to think about what will happen next as he drifts off.

What happens is that true to his word, the youngest Stark takes Shireen by the hand, Shaggydog on his leash and he leaves in her car, driving to some unknown place. 

**~*~*~*~*~Time~*~*~*~*~Skip~*~*~*~*~**

Both Bran and Sansa Stark hoped that they would learn the ‘Rickeen’ backstory in due course.   
Don’t start to blame the name on him, Sansa has once been a Glee fan, and she loves making up names, hence Rickon and Shireen becoming Rickeen by commodity. He tries to tell all of his siblings — plus Theon — as much when it’s “Stark Video Time” but Robb is appalled by the situation and treats it like it requires a battle plan.

“We were all willfully blind to Rickon, so of course we’ve missed his love life! The question is… what do we plan to do now?”

“Well, nothing,” Bran shrugs, “and it’s not quite exact, dramatic revelation aside, I suspected there was something going on between the two.”

“Yeah we know, you have psychic powers or something,” Theon sneers.

“I’m observant, that’s all, and besides Gendry actually knew before I’d even witnessed anything.” 

“True that,” Arya concedes, turning towards something behind her that her camera doesn’t catch, “how come?”

Gendry comes into view, obviously wishing to be anywhere else.

“I was with Davos, around three years ago, hanging out at Stannis’ house because he’d accepted to help me with setting the Repair Shop, said it was a sound project, that unlike Robert and Renly I had a good head on my shoulders… when our attention was caught by Shireen in peals of laughter. In case you didn’t know, she’s rather serious and melancholic, so…”   
Gendry lets the silence grow, probably reaching his word limit, but it doesn’t tell them how Rickon fits in all of this.

“She’s Stannis Baratheon’s girl,” Robb remarks neutrally, “that’s hardly surprising. He’s not known for his joyous disposition.”

“And then what, Waters?” Theon prompts despite his affected boredom.

“I saw Rickon standing a few paces away from her. He was blushing like a maid and Shireen just let herself be handled by the dog, she giggled and your brother, he looked at that like…”

“As if he was infatuated?” Sansa volunteers with a besotted smile of her own, “I can picture it.” 

“Well, I’ve seen Shireen once or twice and despite the… errr, skin thing she’s a great girl, really. But if you want to convince me that Rickon was actually in love with her for years and nobody realized? I don’t buy it.”

It takes everything from the people hearing that not to remind Arya of her own blindness in the love department. Her obviousness had driven everyone to distraction before Gendry caved and kissed her in front of everyone during Jon’s birthday. Jon himself stays stubbornly silent, though his camera catches his rosy cheeks and Bran has to concentrate not to snigger like Theon. 

“If Bran and I did not see it ourselves, we’d be sceptic too,” Sansa comes to the rescue, “but they are so cute together, he’s so caring!”

“Maybe, but you have to admit, that’s unexpected!”

“Robb, love works in mysterious ways. Mother’s still furious of course but she’ll come around.”

She’ll have to eventually, whether she accepts the age-gap or not means little in the grand scheme of things:

Rickon has texted him an address three days ago — it’s in Boston — but it’s the only information he has. It’s too soon to say anything to the rest of them though, so Bran keeps his mouth shut. Rousing the Pack would be a bit premature yet.

Even Bran Stark has to conspire eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my first ever Rickeen (and Game of Thrones) fic, I can't believe I had the nerve to write this.
> 
> Bran here is very close to me (on several levels) but my inspiration came from the Boston song by Augustana.
> 
> Enjoy !


End file.
